Program Change

I’ve kind of hit a wall this past week. Turns out not knowing what I’m going to be doing, nor having control over what I’m going to be doing everyday is exhausting. And the “language discussion problem” continues to bar my ability to build meaningful relationships with people. I’ve turned into a fountain! The past four days I’ve averaged a good two cries a day. Earlier I wrote a post called “Soft Landings.” Little did I realize that the whole classroom phase in Jaipur was a soft landing in comparison with the internship phase. In these low moments I miss my parents and my friends. I miss my “American life,” I’m sick of my “Indian life” and no matter how hard I try to bring both together in my mind I can’t seem to reconcile the two, which is the most frustrating part. I knowingly romanticize my American life so that it seems like a Shangri La filled with loved ones, English-speakers, free Internet access 24/7, pleasant surroundings, and the freedom to move about on my own terms.

            Fortunately the “I Want my Mommy” moments are interspersed with some pretty awesome experiences. After Phalodi the whole UMBVS crew trekked to the Pokran offices, about an hour’s drive away. There they were organizing a conference on women’s land and asset ownership rights. 450 women from the villages descended on the facilities for 2 days and a night, plus the staff of the 7 NGOs that organized the event. It was overwhelming to say the least. Caroline and I shared a room and would wake up to strangers walking in and out to use our (I guess not really ours, but that’s the American in me) bathroom. It was impossible to find privacy, but on the upside easy to find someone to help us put on our saris for the first time. At one point I found myself in the middle of 4 women folding, tucking, and pinning me into 6 meters of fabric. After a full day of wearing one, my official assessment is that, though beautiful, saris are about as comfortable as wearing a ball gown everyday.

            We stayed in Pokran one more night after all the women had left, and it was just us and the men again. To celebrate, we had non-veg…shhh. Out here in the desert, non-veg consistently means mutton. A.k.a. goat. Whether you eat veg or non-veg is one of the main ways people divide and identify themselves. It is one of the first questions we’re asked when meeting new people, along with our marital status, how many brothers we have, and what our parents do for a living. Anyways, when we first asked what was for khana, middle-aged men in gleeful whispers told us, “Non-veg…shhh.” Preparing the goat was kind of a clandestine operation, even though everyone knew what we were doing. You would’ve thought they were saying we were going to get drunk or something. As we sat outside peeling garlic with Jakir everyone looked at us knowingly. When it was ready we sat huddled in groups around shared plates under the stars, eating the meat and roti soaked in the sauce with our hands. It was the spiciest food I’ve ever eaten in my life. The only sounds for a good half an hour were of 10 men and 2 girls eating with mouths opened wide, burping, and breathing in and out rapidly to provide some relief from the 3 ladlefuls of chili powder that were dumped in the sauce. Mom, you would’ve been appalled at our manners.

We Weave, Therefore We Are

“Western Rajasthan: One of the most inhospitable regions for human habitation in India!” These are the words that greeted me on the page of a pamphlet I browsed while sitting in the office of Surjan Ram Jaipal, Executive Director of URMUL Marusthali Bunkar Vikas Samiti (Desert Weavers Development Society). These same words have a whole new meaning now, a day later, as I’m holed up in my dark (the power has gone, which is a common occurence), tiny room waiting out my first sandstorm. My keyboard is gritty from the sand accumulating underneath my fingertips as I type. I can hear the wind doing damage to the tin plates and porcelain chai cups in the courtyard/kitchen below. This is a whole ‘nother level of unfamiliarity, isolation and culture shock.

For the internship portion of my program I’ve chosen to head back west to Jaisalmer with my partner in crime Caroline (pronounced Carolyn, which has been just so much fun to try and explain to everyone. In fact, Jakir the cook has renamed us "Shasha" and Malia, after Obama's daughters). On the way we’ve stopped off at UMBVS’s main headquarters in Phalodi, a small town halfway between Jodhpur and Jaisalmer. UMBVS originated as a small organization of weavers, banding together as dalits (formerly of the untouchable caste) looking for a way to generate income during the severe drought of 1987. There are now 178 weavers (only 10% of which are women. Contrary to what we would think, weaving is traditionally a men’s task) in the organization who work and live in various villages of the Jodhpur and Jaisalmer districts. UMBVS’s role in the community has expanded. There are a variety of development programs being run, which focus on health care, primary education, water and energy, Self-Help Groups, and women empowerment.

Today we drove 60 km (about an hour by jeep) to Surjan Ramji’s village. There we met his extended family and saw some weavers in action. The villages are divided and organized into Dhanies (a cluster of 5 to 10 huts), which are usually quite far from each other. The huts are usually made of cow patties with thatched roofs.

So inhospitable living conditions, yes, but the people here are quite the opposite. In fact, they’re the only reason I don’t go running back to the city with a white flag of surrender trailing behind me. The language barrier is a challenge (as Surjan Ramji put it, “Language discussion problem”), but the men working here are the least creepy I’ve found in India yet and their young and invariably large families that live on site are adorable and welcoming. Plus, kids help break down language barriers.

As for what we’re doing from day to day, a lot is unknown to us and we’ve therefore learned to go with the flow. We have a roughly outlined schedule for the days ahead; for example, we know these next two days that we’re in Phalodi we’ll be doing field visits to the surrounding villages. But what a “field visit” actually entails we’ve yet to find out. Once you let go a little bit, it’s fun and exciting not knowing what awaits you when you wake up in the morning. Usually I’m pleasantly surprised. 

Caroline, more technologically able than I, has helped me figure out how to post pictures! Above is a picture of me from Holi, my parents and I at Amber Fort in Jaipur, a picture of me in front of my fourth and final birthday cake of the day, and the infamous sandstorm.

The Wise Words of Surinderji

            Surinderji is the accountant at MSID and he escorted us to Phalodi and helped us settle in. On the trip there he had some wonderful sayings that I thought I’d share:

--In the car after seeing me tearfully saying goodbye to my parents (I’d only seen them for a day and a half!), Surinderji turns to me and says, “In my life, the most beautiful goodbye I have seen. Best parents in the world you have, I think.” I concur, Surinderji, I concur.

--After Caroline told him she had to stop to go to the bathroom, Surinderji somberly assured us that, “It is a must. It is a must, Caroline. Or make bad things happen inside.” 

'merican

When I first arrived in Jaipur the first thing that really hit me was not so much how different everyone else was from me, but how different I was from everyone else; in particular how American I really am. Part of defining identity is really just drawing the line between self and other. The process is a relative one. And so having only been surrounded by Americans my whole life, my nationality was never essential to my identity. Only when you come up against something so contrary to your nature, or at least certain aspects of your nature, do you begin to see that it’s not actually natural at all.

I like all things chocolate and a big juicy steak। I value privacy and self-sufficiency। I come around to a lot of my decisions via pragmatic reasoning informed by those values. I have a hard time believing that Sai Baba can make a mango appear in his hand, or that curd and rice cures all stomach ailments. I am American, and that’s okay.

मै अमेरिका की रहनेवाली हु।

Transliteration: Mai Amrika ki rahanevali hu.

Literal Translation: I America of permanent resident/the one am.

Translation: I am the one of America.

A lot of times trying to understand Indian culture is a lot like trying to decode a Hindi sentence. You have to peel away the many layers and re-order the words before you can make any sense of the beautiful symbols, and everything is always more complicated and rich in meaning than first meets the eye.

For example:

The vali (or vala/vale depending on gender and number) tacked onto rahane- is a general term used often in Hindi, which roughly translates into “the one who/of___”. The subzi-vale and fruit-vale and pickles-vale walk around the different colonies all day selling their goods to the residents, singing out their distinct calls, advertising what they have to offer. Walking down Devi Path every morning I hear the vale and I think of the Mai Amrika ki rahanevali hu and it’s like I’m a vali myself, advertising my goods with a distinct Americanness. My clothes, the way I carry myself, and (if I’m alone) my independence as a woman, all call out to passerby’s, Amrika-vali! I am the one of America!

Castles in the Sand

Sorry ya’ll, I’ve been a bad blogger.

 Two weekends ago six of us took an overnight train to Jaisalmer, 12 hours west of Jaipur. Despite the cockroaches and mice, brushing my teeth in the space between cars with the desert flashing by the wide open door is now at the top of my list of preferred ways to wake up. Jaisalmer itself is pretty impressive, if not a little overrun by tourists. Most inhabitants live inside the fort itself, which looks like a golden sandcastle that has seen one too many waves.

            What made the trip really worth it was our camel safari. Four of us drove out about an hour north of the city where we met up with our camels and guides (one of them named Mr. Camel Man). Camels (and this is coming from a girl who rides horses) are REALLY uncomfortable to ride, especially without stirrups so I was glad we were only on them for about an hour, and took less than that to get to a point where I felt utterly isolated. (Even so, we couldn't have been that isolated since Mr. Camel Man was on his cell phone at all points throughout the trip). We stopped off at Mr. Camel Man’s village, where he proudly showed us inside his hut elaborately decorated with newspaper clippings, photos, and other paraphernalia former satisfied customers had sent back from all over the world.

            We set up camp on a strip of sand dune and gathered around the fire as one of the guides cooked our dinner of pakoras, chapatti, and subji (Indian spice, please) right in front of us. The guides spoke limited English so with Shiveta’s help translating we were able to get more out of the experience than if we hadn’t had a couple weeks of Hindi class under our belts. The experience got even more surreal when night fell and the fact that we were in the middle of a desert with four strange men 40 km from the border with Pakistan really solidified in my mind. And then Mr. Camel Man started telling us about the illicit heroine-gold trade that used to go on between Pakistan and India 10 years back when the border wasn’t sealed. The heroine would come from Afghanistan and the men would transport the goods on camels, using the stars to navigate across the Thar Desert. Now, according to Mr. Camel Man, there are flood lights activated if anyone comes within 50 feet of the border, and shot if he/she touches it (but I’ve also learned to often take what an Indian says about Pakistan with a grain of salt).  

            The evening ended with rousing renditions of the guides’ village songs, Hotel California, an interesting chant version of No Woman, No Cry (something like, “no camel, no chapatti, no water, no woman, no cry”), and…Jingle Bells. We slept soundly under the brightest stars I’d seen in a while, as dung beetles crept silently around us in the sand and cranky camels cleared their throats and passed gas.